A day with Charles Dickens - archive.org

DICKENS

1910SMC

DAYS WITH THEGREAT WRITERS

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Painting by SYDNEY CARTON ON THE SCAFFOLD.L. Kaven Hill.

"They said of him, about the City that night, that

it was the peacefullest man's face ever beheld there.

Many added that he looked sublime and prophetic."

C4 Tale of Two Cities.)

AMSfWITHCHARLESDICKENS

MAURICE CLARE

LONDON\HODDER.-SSTOUGHTON

In the same Series.

Stevenson.

Thackeray.

A DAY WITHCHARLES DICKENS

|T was a glorious June morningin the year 1857. The scarlet

geraniums, dear for their

brilliance and colour to their

master's heart, were in full

flamboyance of flower ; the

syringas were sending wafts ofsweetness throughthe garden : lovely shadows lay beneath the

two great cedar trees, when a smallish, active,

brown-bearded man, strongly resembling a sea-

captain ashore, came out to survey his little

domain, in all its pomp of midsummer, while

yet the dew was on it : for there was to him,

as he had said, "something incomparably solemn

in the still solitude of the morning."It is seldom that the man in his maturity

may fulfil the half-impossible aspirations of

boyhood : but Charles Dickens had done

this to the very letter. As a child he had

desired this quaint old Georgian house of

Gadshill on the Dover Road, with its magnifi-

cent views of Cobham Woods, the distant

A DAY WITH CHARLES DICKENS

Thames, the nearer Medway, the stately

contours of Rochester Castle and Cathedral.

And now, at forty-five years of age, behold himensconced as the owner thereof. " A gravered brick house," he had written of it,

" which

I have added to, and stuck bits upon, in all

manner of ways, so that it is as pleasantly

irregular, and as violently opposed to all

architectural ideas as the most hopeful mancould possibly desire."

The bronzed, hardy-looking man, with a

"face like steel," as Mrs. Carlyle had termed

it, looked eagerly to and fro, casting his eyesof extraordinary brilliancy over the glorious

panorama of the landscape and the sunlit

splendours of the flowers : then, with the quick

light step of a practised pedestrian, he crossed

the road in front of the house, by an under-

ground passage, to a shrubbery on the oppositeside. Here was the Swiss chalet which

Fechter had sent him from Paris, and which

Dickens had turned into a study."

I have put

five mirrors," he told a friend, "in the chalet

where I write, and they reflect and refract, in

all kinds of ways, the leaves that are quiveringat the windows, and the great fields of waving

corn, and the sail-dotted river. My room is up6


among the branches of the trees ; and the birds

and butterflies fly in and out, and the greenbranches shoot in at the open windows, and the

lights and shadows of the clouds seem to comeand go with the rest of the company. Thescent of the flowers, and indeed of everythingthat is growing for miles and miles, is most

delicious."

The great author ran upstairs and busied

himself, with alert movements and dexterous

touches, in setting his papers in order for the

day's work : for he was the most methodical of

men. No writer, it has been said, ever lived,

of greater industry and more systematic method.

In short, as his daughter Mamie wrote of him," he was tidy in every way in his mind, in his

handsome and graceful person, in his work, in

keeping his writing-table drawers, in his large

correspondence, in fact in his whole life."

Sometimes, indeed, this propensity to tidiness

developed into a fidgetty fussiness of detail,

so that he would entirely re-arrange the whole

furniture of some hotel bedroom where he was

only staying for the night.

He could not write unless everything was

placed exactly ready to his hand in apple-pie

order, and unless he had, ranged around and


before him, that singular variety of objects uponwhich he wished his eye to rest in any momen-

tary respite from actual work. A little cup full

of fresh flowers was invariably one of those

objects, a bronze group of toads duelling a

gilt leaf with a seated rabbit a huge paperknife a French statuette of a dog-fancier

carrying a multiplicity of little dogs. And,

amongst these heterogeneous odds and ends,

the most popular and the most widely-read manof his time perhaps of any time evolved his

intricate plots, and created that unrivalled

portrait-gallery, which was and is unique in the

annals of literature. Four months after he beganto write, he was famous : his career had knownno checks, no blights, no returned MSS., no

sicknesses of hope deferred. " His literary life

was a triumphal procession," and his characters

were already household words. It is hardly

possible to understand in this present day, whennovels are multiplied into a weariness of the

flesh, the feverish excitement and anticipation,

the immense furore, which anticipated and hailed

the issue of the monthly parts of "Pickwick'"

and its successors : when Oxford undergraduatesraced each other for the mail coach to secure

the first copies, and men told each other seriously


in the City that "Quilp is dead !

" But at the

time of which we write, some sixty years ago,

men had hardly got over their wonder at the

cheery optimism of the famous author or ceased

chuckling over Mr. Winkle's skating exploits,

and the anxieties of Sam Weller over his

carefully-concocted" Walentine."

"A what!" exclaimed Mr. Weller,

apparently horror-stricken by the word.

"A walentine," replied Sam.

"Samivel, Samivel," said Mr. Weller in

reproachful accents, "I did'nt think you'd ha'

done it .... after actiwally seein' and

bein' in the company of your own mother-

in-law, vich I should ha' thought was a moral

lesson as no man could never ha' forgotten to

his dyin' day ! Begin again,

Sammy."Sam read as follows :

"Lovely creetur I

feel myself ashamed and completely circum-

scribed in a dressin' of yer, for you are a

nice girl and nothing but it !

"

" That's a werry pretty sentiment," said

the elder Mr. Weller, removing his pipe to

make way for the remark. "Yes, I think

it is rayther good," observed Sam, highly

flattered.

9


"Wot I like in that 'ere style of writin',"

said the elder Mr. Weller, "is, that there

'aint no callin' names in it no Wenuses nor

nothin' o' that kind. Wot's the good of

callin' a young 'ooman a Wenus or an angel,

Sammy? You might just as well call her a

griffin, or a unicorn, or a King's arms at once."'

(The Pickwick Papers.)

Dickens, having completed his preparations

to the smallest detail, returned to the house,

that methodical, comfortable house, "the

sweetest and cleanliest I have ever been in,"

as Marcus Stone said. In all the minutiae of

household management he took a personal and

masterful interest : every detail was ordered byhis own tastes. It was an ideal home in manyrespects : and especially arranged with a view

to the comfort of those countless visitors whomCharles Dickens loved to entertain. In the

hall, which was hung with Hogarth prints, was

a large letterbox with the postal hours conspic-

uously printed on it. In every bedroom was

the most somniferous of beds, the most luxurious

of sofas, the easiest of chairs : not to mention a

writing-table supplied with every kind of paperand envelopes and continuous provision of new

quill pens. A small library of books, a lighted10

Painting by L. Raven Hill. THE TWO WELLERS.

"That's a werry pretty sentiment," said the elder

Mr. Weller, removing his pipe to make way for the

remark "Yes, I think it is rayther good," observed

Sam, highly flattered." (The Pickwick Papers).


fire in winter, a shining copper kettle and a

tray with every appurtenance for tea, completed

the plenishing of the room : and as a conse-

quence of this thorough-going preparation for

every possible need, no servants were ever

visible in the house, except at meal-times : this,

perhaps, was the chief characteristic of Gadshill.

The household appeared to be conducted byinvisible agencies, much like the enchanted

palace in Beauty and the Beast.

Breakfast was at nine : besides the novelist

himself, and his wife, a plump, handsome,

amiable, typical Early-Victorian woman, were

several members of his large family, the ten sons

and daughters who were growing up around

him. Two or three guests were usually present:

men of note and name, happy to dwell awhile

in that vivacious company, and in that pre-

eminently hospitable home. It was a merrybreakfast table ; for Dickens, who could tell a

story well himself, was also a capital listener.

He was now, as Hans Andersen had observed,

in his best years, "so youthful, lively, eloquent,

and rich in humour, through which the warmest

cordiality ever shone Select the

best of Charles Dickens' works, form from this

the image of a man, and you have Dickens."13


Breakfast over, the visitors dispersed to

amuse themselves, and that was easy enough,in a charming atmosphere of summer warmthand dolce far niente. They smoked, read the

papers, and pottered about the garden in sweet

content until midday : some, indeed, went

walks or drives, but it was much less trouble

to potter.

The strenuous host, however, was already

hard at work. He had begun, with his usual

orderliness, by scanning every corner of his

kingdom :

"seeing that all was in its place in

the several rooms, visiting also the dogs, stables,

and kitchen garden, and closing, unless the

weather was very bad indeed, with a turn or

two round the meadow before settling to his

desk." (Forster). He was usually accompaniedon this progress by his magnificent St. Bernard,Linda : but this was only one of many canine

favourites.

Dickens' love for dogs is not manifested in

his novels to the extent that one might expect.

With the exception of Bill Sikes' dog, Bull's-eye,

in Oliver Twist, which plays so prominent a part

through the tragedy of the escaped murderer,there are to be found but few instances of a dog

figuring notably, as it does in many of Scott's tales.

14


He took a keen delight in the birds, especially

the nightingales, around Gadshill ; but that he

knew one species from another is quite problem-atical. Grip, the Raven in Barnaby Rudge, is

treated more as one of the dramatispersona than

as a typical bird. And, indeed, it is the peculi-

arity of Dickens, that with all his indubitable

delight in out-door pursuits, he still regardednature mainly as a mise-en-scene. Scenery wasto him the back-ground, or the drop-curtain,

animal and bird-life were but the chorus, the

sunshine, or the moonbeams, were simply extra

limelight effects upon the stage of his inexhaust-

ible dramatic imagination. Take, for example,the opening chapter of The Chimes, which de-

monstrates his method of visualising the wind.

"The night wind has a dismal trick of

wandering round and round a building of that

sort, and moaning as it goes : and of trying,

with its unseen hand, the windows and the

doors : and seeking out some crevices by which

to enter. And when it has got in : as one not

finding what it seeks, whatever that may be, it

wails and howls to issue forth again ; and, not

content with stalking through the aisles, and

gliding round and round the pillars, and, temptingthe great organ, soars up to the roof, and strives

15


to rend the rafters ; then flings itself despairingly

upon the stones below, and passes, muttering,into the vaults. Anon it comes up stealthily,

and creeps along the walls, seeming to read, in

whispers, the Inscriptions Sacred to the Dead.At some of these, it breaks out shrilly, as with

laughter : and at others, moans and cries as if it

were lamenting . . Ugh ! Heaven preserve

us, sitting snugly round the fire ! It has an

awful voice, that wind at midnight, singing in a

church !

"

In every book that proceeded from the penof Dickens, the same minuteness of observation

and description was used for the same effects.

The result, although it left the reader a very

long way from the original simplicities of nature,was undeniably fine ; the limelighting was done

by a master-hand.

His daily inspection of the little estate per-

formed, the novelist ascended to his sanctum in

the chalet, and there wrote for a good three

hours sedulously, carefully, thorough in all

that he undertook, plodding on with neither

haste nor faltering, deliberately covering sheet

after sheet in his small neat handwriting. Forhe took himself very seriously as regards his

profession: and considered system, in this as

16


in all other matters, to be the very foundation

of it.

"I never could have done what I have

done," he said, "without the habits of punctu-

ality, order and diligence ; without the deter-

mination to concentrate myself upon one object

at a time, no matter how quickly its successor

should come upon its heels . . . WhateverI have tried to do in life, I have tried with

all my heart to do well ... In great aims

and small, I have always been thoroughly in

earnest."

"In the matter of concentrated toil and

clear purpose and unconquerable worldly

courage, he was like a straight sword." Andalthough the Dickens villains never eventually

usurp, like Scott's, the place and interest due to

the hero, although he painted good and bad in

the most uncompromising colours, this admira-

tion of the set, strong purpose is very notice-

able, even in the characters of the vilest. Onehas only to recall Carker, in Dombey and Son,

Jasper, in Edwin Drood, Jonas, in Martin

Chuzzlewit, as examples of this unswervingcourse towards some goal which becomes,

humanly speaking, through very force of that

purpose, inevitable. By virtue also of this set

17


unflinching aim, the weak acquire strange

strength ; and to Dickens, whose main end,

consciously or unconsciously, was to reveal the

"soul of goodness in things evil," the portrayal

of this gradual recovery of lost chances, this

slow retrieval of errant steps, must have been a

labour of love. Its most signal exponent, may-

be, is Sydney Carton in the Tale of Two Cities,

the reckless and devil-may-care Carton, puri-

fied by passionate emotion, climbing on the

ladder of a hopelessly-unrequited love to a

height of self-sacrifice where few can follow him

the height of the guillotine platform where he

Elands in another man's name. In the Tale of

Two Cities, Dickens reached a summit, and

maintained a solemn nobility of attitude, which

he only touched in this one historical novel of

his. Humour is here for the most part a minor

quantity ; but in the man who becomes, at the

crucial moment, the central figure of the piece,

there is an austere joyfulness of altruism, which

can bring tears to the eyes of the most blase

novel-reader.

"They said of him, about the city that

night, that it was the peacefulest man's face

ever beheld there. Many added that he looked

sublime and prophetic.18


"One of the most remarkable sufferers bythe same axe a woman had asked at the foot

of the same scaffold, not long before, to be

allowed to write down the thoughts that were

inspiring her. If he had given any utterance to

his, they would have been these.""

'I see the lives for which I lay down mylife, peaceful, useful, prosperous and happy, in

that England which I shall see no more. I see

Her with a child upon her bosom, who bears

my name.''

" 'I see that child who lay upon her bosom

and who bore my name, a man winning his wayup in that path of life which once was mine. I

see him winning it so well, that my name is

made illustrious there by the light of his. I see

the blots I threw upon it, faded away. I see

him . . bringing a boy of my name with a

forehead that I know and golden hair, to this

place . . and I hear him tell the child mystory, with a tender and a faltering voice.'

"

"'It is a far, far better thing that I do, than

I have ever done ; it is a far, far better rest that

I go to, than I have ever known.' "

(A Tale of Two Cities.)

Charles Dickens was not, to outward

semblance, what is usually termed a religious19


man ; yet his morning and evening prayers

were part of his unvarying routine, and he

adhered to them with a child's punctuality.

Strongly Church of England, yet averse from

forcing his opinions on others, he was a

passionate hater of cant and rant, rather than a

passionate lover of any special form of devotion.

His Christianity, one might infer, was more of

the head than of the heart ; but it was an

inflexible and deeply-rooted conviction none the

less.

"Try to do to others," he wrote, when his

youngest son was leaving for Australia, "as

you would have them do to you, and do not be

discouraged if they fail sometimes. It is muchbetter for you that they should fail in obeyingthe greatest rule laid down by Our Saviour,

than that you should. I put a New Testament

among your books for the very same reasons,

and the very same hopes, that made me write

an easy account of it for you when you were a

little child. Because it is the best book that

ever was, or ever will be, known in the world :

and because it teaches you the best lessons bywhich any human creature, who tries to be

truthful and faithful to duty, can possibly be

guided. As your brothers have gone away one20


by one, I have written to each such words as I

am now writing to you, and have entreated themall to guide themselves by the Book, putting

aside the interpretations and inventions of man.

"You will remember that you have never

at home been worried about religious observ-

ances or mere formalities. You will therefore

understand the better what I now solemnly

impress upon you, the truth and beauty of the

Christian religion as it came from Christ Him-self. . . . Never abandon the wholesome

practice of saying your own private prayers,

night and morning. I have never abandoned it

myself, and I know the comfort of it."

And undoubtedly, Charles Dickens," who

alone of modern writers did really destroy someof the wrongs he hated, and bring about some

of the reforms he desired," was as powerful an

exponent of practical Christianity as ever led

an apparently forlorn hope in the eternal

crusade against evil. "He was a good man,"it has been written of him,

"as men go in this

bewildering world of ours : brave, transparent,

tender-hearted, scrupulously independent and

honourable." And Carlyle, not born to flatter,

called him " the good, the gentle, high-gifted,

ever-friendly, noble Dickens every inch of21


him an honest man;" a philanthropist, as Jowett

said,"

in the true sense."

The midsummer morning passed all too

soon, and the novelist at last threw down his

pen with a sigh of relief. The last page of Little

Dorrit was completed : in a few days the tale,

which had been issued in monthly numbers,would be published as a whole ; and a certain

sense of strain was now exchanged for a

corresponding relaxing of mental effort.

" When I sit down to my book," he wrote,

"some beneficent power shows it all to me,and tempts me to be interested, and I don't

invent it really do not but see it, and write it

down. ... It is only when it all fades awayand is gone, that I begin to suspect that its

momentary relief has cost me something.""He is said to have declared . . . that

every word uttered by his characters was

distinctly heard by him before it was written

down." Yet on the other hand he averred,"

I work slowly and with great care, and never

give way to my invention recklessly, but con-

stantly restrain it." It is possible that so fertile,

so spendthrift an invention needed the bit rather

than the spur. To take the briefest glance at

the immense range, scope and variety of Charles

22


Dickens' creations, is absolutely dazzling and

bewildering. One may accuse him of staginess,

of exaggeration, of "pushing the hilarity to the

point of incredible character-drawing," debasing

sentiment into sentimentalism, and turning

comedy into farce. The fact remains that there

are "chords in the human mind," as Mr. Guppyremarked in Bleak House, which he touched as

no novelist of wider scholarship and loftier style

has done : that "in everybody there is a certain

thing that loves babies, that fears death, that

likes sunlight : that thing enjoys Dickens." And

possibly, as a specimen of robust humour drawn

with the most incisively delicate touches, there

is no portrait to surpass that of Dick Swiveller.

Dickens took an infinity of pains and trouble in

the composing of The Old Curiosity Shop : the

impending fate of Little Nell weighed upon his

mind, till even his customary good sleep forsook

him. But he worked up conscientiously for "a

great effect at last with the Marchioness," and

got it in those inimitable chapters where Dick

Swiveller introduces her to cribbage.

"Now," said Mr. Swiveller, putting two

sixpences into a saucer, and turning the wretched

candle, when the cards had been cut and dealt,

"those are the stakes. Ifyou win, you get 'em all.

23


If I win, I get 'em. To make it seem more real

and pleasant, I shall call you the Marchioness,

do you hear ?" The small servant nodded.

"Then, Marchioness," said Mr. Swiveller,

"fire away!" The Marchioness, holding the

cards very tight in both hands, considered which

to play : and Mr. Swiveller, assuming the gayand fashionable air which such society required,

took another pull at the tankard, and waited for

the lead. . ." The Baron Sampsono Brasso

and his fair sister are (you tell me) at the

play ?"

said Mr. Swiveller, leaning his left arm

heavily upon the table, and raising his voice,

and his right leg, after the manner of a theatri-

cal bandit. The Marchioness nodded. "Ha!"said Mr. Swiveller, with a portentous frown,

"'Tis well. Marchioness! but no matter.

Some wine there. Ho !

" He illustrated these

melodramatic morsels by handing the tankard

to himself with great humility, receiving it

haughtily, drinking from it fiercely, and smack-

ing his lips fiercely." (The Old Curiosity Shop.)

Luncheon-time having now arrived, Dickens

put his writing-table in order, fastened his papers

together, and returned to the house. He glancedwith fond admiration, as he passed by, at the in-

creasing splendour of his flower-beds. Colour

24

DICK SWIVELLER AND THE MARCHIONESS.

"The Marchioness, holding the cards very tight in

both hands, considered which to play ; and Mr.

Swiveller, assuming the gay and fashionable air which

such society required, . , . waited for the lead."

(The Old Curiosity Shop.)


was with him a passion manifested, it must be

confessed, in a somewhat crude and barbarous

form. For the tender nuances and mezzotints

beloved of the painter, the exquisite gradations

of beauty, "silent silver lights and darks un-

dreamed of," he cared little. He revelled in

profusions and in sudden shocks of strong

colour : not only to look upon, but to wear.

He was capable of combining a bright greenwaistcoat with a vivid scarlet tie and a huge

bouquet in his buttonhole ; or of a sky-blue coat

with red cuffs, with a huge gold chain and tie-

pin. But these trifling eccentricities endeared

him the more, perhaps, to his friends, who

appreciated the true lovable worth of the man.

Some of these friends were already awaiting himnow. Albert Smith, the novelist and entertainer,

with the high treble voice. Frank Stone, the

tall good-looking painter ; Wilkie Collins, with

his small form and huge spectacles. They sat

down, full of mirth and gaiety, at the com-

fortable table, which was bright with flowers,

and at which a daring innovation the dishes

were handed round to each guest, instead of

being planked down simultaneously according to

the custom of the period. Luncheon at Gadshill

was a substantial meal : although the host himself

27


rarely ate more than a little bread and cheese

and ale. No "shop

"talk jarred upon the easy

flow of conversation, as far as he himself

was concerned : for ' ' there never was so re-

markable an author as Dickens," to quote John

Forster, "who carried so little of authorship into

ordinary social intercourse. . . . Traces or

triumphs of literary labour were no part of the

influence he exerted over friends. To them he

was only the pleasantest of companions, with

whom they forgot that he had ever written

anything." He had sound but not recondite

tastes in literature ; of Tennyson's poems, for

instance, he was a profound admirer : but any-

thing which was ' ' caviare to the general" was

out of his focus altogether. He had but a

middle-class appreciation of painting : in music

he had little interest, and it is rarely alluded

to in his writings. The ordinary songs of the

day, whether jovial or sentimental, and the inci-

dental music to melodramas, sufficed his simple

needs.

Yet a livelier, a more amusing and charming

companion could hardly exist, than Dickens

when surrounded by his family and friends.

He not only gave, as R. H. Home said, "the

general impression of a first-rate practical in-


tellect, with no nonsense about him," but he

was singularly genial in conversation. Avoiding

argument, and evincing the broadest sympathies,he never talked for effect, but was full of "

light

easy talk, and touch-and-go fun." Althoughhis expression, in the words of Frith, had settled

into "that of one who has reached the topmost

rung of a very high ladder, and is perfectly awareof his position," he was perfectly unaffected and

unassuming, as breezy and bracing in personalityas the sea-captain home for a holiday, which his

appearance so frequently suggested.

Luncheon over, Dickens' astounding vi-

tality, which never allowed him to lounge, nowevinced itself in proposing a game of bowls uponthe lawn. Not all his guests had sufficient

energy to join him : some preferring the cool-

ness of the billiard room, and others finding, in

the library with its rows of sham book-titles,

that Hansard's Guide to Refreshing Sleep was byno means a misnomer. The novelist, after half

an hour's energetic bowling, returned to his

chalet workroom. In addition to actual creative

work, he had a vast amount of editorial business

in connection with Household Words, and an enor-

mous correspondence to cope with. The success-

ful author of those days had neither amanuensis,29


stenographer, or typist, and the quantity of sheer

manual labour entailed was consequently very

great ; though, to a man of Dickens' remarkable

personal activity, this was all part of the day's

work and could never be regarded as a hardship.

He was shut up in the chalet till six o'clock,

the dinner-hour : and then at last he might lay

by his literary labours, and find fresh outlets for

his mental and bodily unrest.

Fresh visitors had arrived during the after-

noon : James White, the kindly jovial Scotsman,one of Dickens' dearest friends, the small, thin,

dull-looking Procter ("Barry Cornwall") and

his daughter Adelaide, a charming but singularly

plain woman : and the Carlyles, husband and

wife: the one, tall, lean, rugged, with "thehead of a thinker, the eye of a lover, and the

mouth of a peasant," and the other slim, bright,

upright, with her great lustrous eyes of gypsyblack : the most brilliant conversationalist, per-

haps, that ever entered that house.

But Dickens was not a man, per se, whoattracted women : especially clever ones. Hewas intimate with but "few women of anygreat strength of character, or power of will."

He was too domineering for them, too fond of

his own way. And although they must some-

30

Painted by L. Raven Hill. DOLLY VARDEN.

"The very pink and pattern of good looks, in a

smart little cherry-coloured mantle . . . and a

little straw hat trimmed with cherry-coloured ribbons,

and worn the merest trifle on one side." (Barnaby

Rudge.)


times have yielded even the most intellectual

to the charm of that rich, deep, full voice,' '

capable of imparting without effort every tone

and half-tone of emotion . . . that any spokenwords may demand" (Justin McCarthy), it is

certain that the prevalent type of Dickens

heroine was not cast in a very mighty mould.

To be charming, virtuous, gay and lively,

pretty, as a matter of course, to be, poten-

tially, the most loving and domesticated of

wives for the not-particularly-deserving hero

that was the recognised formula for the

characteristic Dickens' ingenue. And even if

few of his women sink to the childishness of

Dora, the great heroines of English fiction are

not to be found among them. Dolly Vardenis an excellent specimen of her attractive

sisterhood." The very pink and pattern of good looks,

in a smart little cherry-coloured mantle, with a

hood of the same drawn over her head, and

upon the top of that hood, a little straw hat

trimmed with cherry-coloured ribbons, and

worn the merest trifle on one side just enough,in short, to make it the wickedst and most pro-

voking head-dress that ever malicious milliner

devised. And not to speak of the manner

33


in which these cherry -coloured decorations

brightened her eyes, or vied with her lips, or

shed a new bloom on her face, she wore such

a cruel little muff, and such a heartrending pair

of shoes, and was surrounded and hemmedin, as it were, by aggravations of all kinds."

(Barnaby Rudge.)Dinner was the same genial and delightful

meal that lunch had been, enlivened by the

most entertaining conversation, full of wit and

free from the least spice of ill-nature : in all

points a comfortable repast. Comfort, indeed,

"is, like charity, a very English instinct," and

Dickens, the most inherently, almost insularly

English of all our great writers, positively wor-

shipped this ideal of comfort : whether in the

abstract or in the concrete. It is quite obvious

that he relished nothing better than describing

the preparations for a meal made as comfortable

as circumstances would allow. In cases wherethe fare was of the plainest, the company of the

humblest, you can almost see him rubbing his

hands over the prospect of these folk about to

enjoy themselves. There is a gusto, a flavour

of absurd satisfaction, even in Mr. Pecksniff's

introductory repast for the benefit of youngMartin Chuzzlewit.

34


"Festive preparations on rather extensive

scale were already completed, and the two Miss

Pecksniffs were awaiting their return with

hospitable looks. There were two bottles of

currant wine, white and red ; a dish of sand-

wiches (very long and very slim) ; another of

apples ; another of captains' biscuits (which are

always a moist and jovial sort of viand) ; a plate

oforanges cut up small and gritty ; with powderedsugar, and a highly geological home-made cake.

The magnitude of these preparations quite took

away Tom Pinch's breath : for though the new

pupils were usually let down softly, as one maysay, particularly in the wine department, which

had so many stages of declension that sometimes

a young gentleman was a whole fortnight in

getting to the pump ; still, this was a banquet ;

a sort of Lord Mayor's feast in private life ; a

something to think of and hold on by, after-

wards.

To this entertainment, which apart fromits own intrinsic merits had the additional choice

quality, that it was in strict keeping with the

night, being both light and cool, Mr. Pecksniff

besought the company to do full justice.

"Mr. Pinch, if you spare the bottle, weshall quarrel !"....

35


"This," he said, in allusion to the party,

not the wine, "is a mingling that repays one

for much disappointment and vexation. Let us

be merry." Here he took a captain's biscuit.

"It is a poor heart that never rejoices; and

our hearts are not poor. No !"

With such stimulants to merriment did he

beguile the time, and do the honours of the

table ; while Mr. Pinch, perhaps to assure

himself that what he saw and heard was holiday

reality, and not a charming dream, ate of every-

thing, and in particular disposed of the slim

sandwiches to a surprising extent." (Martin

Chuzzlewii).

It is the same hankering desire after

comfort to the limit of circumstances which

pervades the account of David Copperfield's

party to the Micawbers and Mr. Traddles.* '

Having laid in the materials for a bowl of

punch, to be compounded by Mr. Micawber ;

having provided a bottle of lavender water, two

wax candles, a paper of mixed pins, and a pin-

cushion, to assist Mrs. Micawber in her toilet

at my dressing table ; having also caused the fire

in my bedroom to be lighted for Mrs. Micawber's

convenience : and having laid the cloth with

my own hands : I awaited the result with36

Painted by L. Raven Hill. MR. MICAWBER IN HIS ELEMENT.

"I never saw a man so thoroughly enjoy himself . .

as Mr. Micawber that afternoon. It was wonderful

to see his face shining at us out of a thin cloud of these

delicate fumes, as he stirred, and mixed, and tasted."

(David Copperfield.)


composure. . . , When I conducted Mrs.

Micawber to my dressing-table, and she saw

the scale on which it was prepared for her, she

was in such raptures that she called Mr.Micawber to come and look. ... I informed

Mr. Micawber that I relied upon him for a

bowl of punch, and led him to the lemons. His

recent despondency, not to say despair, was

gone in a moment. I never saw a man so

thoroughly enjoy himself amid the fragrance of

lemon peel and sugar, the odour of burning rum,and the steam of boiling water, as Mr. Micaw-ber did that afternoon. It was wonderful to

see his face shining at us out of a thin cloud of

these delicate fumes, as he stirred and mixed

and tasted." {David Copperfield).

When the various guests had departed for

town, as the evening wore on, the indefatigable

novelist set out for his daily walk. Never wasso determined a devotee of "Shanks's Mare.""I am incapable of rest," he told Forster, "If

I could not walk fast and far, I should just

explode and perish." So he took pleasure in

exploring the whole beautiful Kentish neigh-

bourhood, for miles and miles around, and

"discovered that the seven miles between

Maidstone and Rochester is one of the most

39


beautiful walks in England." He would walkround Cobham Park and village, or through the

marshes to Gravesend, or to the weird and

dreary churchyard at Cooling. And this extra-

ordinary delight in merely covering so much

distance, finds outcome and evidence in nearlyall his books. The long, long miles by which

Oliver Twist tramped to Barnet: the vague

perpetual peregrination of Nell and her aged

grandfather, the Dover Road on which David

Copperfield spent such weary days, the

wanderings of Nicholas Nickleby and Smike,and a score of other instances, all bear witness

to the keen observation, the excellent memory,and the personal experience of Charles Dickens

himself.

When at last he reached Gadshill once

more, the moth-time and the twilight surrounded

it. Scents of syringas and roses floated out to

welcome him at the gate : the exquisite odours

of a June evening rose like incense from the

whole surrounding country. He saw, by the

lights in the upper windows, that his youngerchildren were retiring to rest : and ran, unex-

hausted, inexhaustible, upstairs, to sing them

a jolly song or two, that they might go to sleep

merry and light-hearted.4o


For Dickens was excessively fond of child-

ren. The remembrance of his own unhappy

childhood, far from souring him, inspired him

with the desire to make life sunny for others.

He could enter, as the veriest child himself,

buoyant and boisterous, into all their little

frolics and amusements. He delighted to play

nursery games, to dance Sir Roger de Coverley :

and his easily-stirred emotions responded readily

to any hint of pathos or tragedy in child-life. In

many parts of his work there is, as has been

pointed out, "evidence of some peculiar affec-

tion for a strange sort of little girl." A queerlittle girl, too old or too young for her years,

full of startling possibilities, you have only to

think one moment to recall the Marchioness in

The Old Curiosity Shop Jenny Wren in Our

Mutual Friend Tattycoram in Little Dorrit ;

Little Dorrit herself : though she perhaps ranks

more readily beside the touching figure of Little

Nell. The episode of the tiny runaway couplein the Holly Tree Inn is another charming exampleof sympathetic understanding towards the child

mind. And perhaps there are few passagesin English literature more fraught with lachrymte

rerum than those which treat of Johnny in the

Children's Hospital.41


"He had to be washed and tended, and

remedies were applied : and though those offices

were far, far more skilfully and lightly done

than anything had been done for him in his

little life, so rough and short, they would have

hurt and tired him but for an amazing circum-

stance which laid hold of his attention. This

was no less than the appearance on his one little

platform, in pairs, of All Creation, on its wayinto his own particular ark : the elephant leading,

and the fly, with a diffident sense of his size,

politely bringing up the rear. A very little

brother lying in the next bed with a broken leg,

was so enchanted by this spectacle that his

delight exalted its enthralling interest. . . . Themite with a broken leg was restless and wearied :

but after a while turned his face towards Johnny'sbed to fortify himself with a view of the ark,

and so fell asleep. On most of the beds, the

toys were yet grouped as the children had

left them when they last laid themselves

down ; and, in their innocent grotesqueness

and incongruity they might have stood for the

children's dreams. The doctor came in to

see how it fared with Johnny. And he and

Rokesmith stood together, looking down with

compassion on him. "What is it, Johnny?"42


Rokesmith was the questioner, and put an armround the poor baby as he made a struggle."Him," said the little fellow,

" Those !" The

doctor was quick to understand children, and,

taking the horse, the ark, the yellow bird, and

the man in the guards, from Johnny's bed, softly

placed them on that of his next neighbour, the

mite with the broken leg. With a weary yeta pleased smile, and with an action as if he

stretched his little figure out to rest, the child

heaved his body on the sustaining arm, and,

seeking Rokesmith's face with his lips, said,

"A kiss for the boofer lady." Having now

bequeathed all he had to dispose of, and

arranged his affairs in this world, Johnny, thus

speaking, left it." (Our Mutual Friend).

The oft-quoted death of little Paul Dombey,the poignant sadness of the gradual decline of

Little Nell, the piteous ending of poor Jo, are

worthy pendants to this. Yet perhaps the tale

which carried, as in a nutshell, the epitome of

Dickens' whole cheery philosophy The Christ-

mas Carol also contains the most popular ex-

ample of his genuine power to draw tears, in

the touching portraiture of Tiny Tim. Fromthe moment when little Bob Cratchit enters to

the tremendous event of the Christmas dinner,43


"his threadbare clothes darned up and brushed

to look seasonable, and Tiny Tim upon his

shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore a little

crutch, and had his limbs supported by an iron

frame !

"to the vision of the father going

upstairs and kissing the little face of the dead

child, this stunted, ricketty, crippled creature

took a firm hold of the reader's heart : and there

is no one but is conscious of a pang of relief on

subsequently hearing that "Tiny Tim did NOTdie."

But, as has been observed, "the real workof Dickens was the revealing of a certain gro-

tesque greatness inside obscure and even un-

attractive type. It reveals the great paradox of

spiritual things, that the inside is always larger

than the outside." And nowhere did he demon-strate this paradox more successfully, than in

depicting poor, and plain, and even deformed

children. . . .

. . Working and walking, talking and

thinking, had at length brought the day to an

end, and laid a pleasant lassitude of fatigue over

that exuberant and indomitable energy. With

footsteps a little slower than his wont, the

master of Gadshill, lighting a cigar, went round

the garden in the fragrant dusk : then, with the44


exactness and punctuality which characterised

his every deed, he entered the house at a given

minute, and was soon plunged in a sleep of

absolute profundity. There, for a few brief

hours, the restless mind and body were quies-

cent. "As to repose," he had written, "for

some men there's no such thing in this life :

"

but even for him there was the temporary res-

pite and refreshment which may be born of a

midsummer night's dream.

Printed by The Bushey Colour Press (Andre & Sleigh, Ltd.),

Biuhey, Herts., England.

PR 4581 .897 1910 SMCByron, May Clarissa GillingtA day witfi Charles Dickens

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A day with Charles Dickens - archive.org